I Never Said 'I Love You'
by garche4291
Summary: Rurilienne and the country on the other side of the river have been fighting ever since before Mathieu was born, but somehow it has never touched him directly. After all, he's been raised in a palace, safe from the bloodshed, and protected by his Papa. But again, this is war. A lot of people will get hurt, and some will die. Why should he be any different? AU.


**Damn site rules I haven't gotten used to yet... I have to write that disclaimer for _everything_... /incoherent whinging**

** Anyway, I don't own Hetalia.**

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**I Never Said 'I Love You'  
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The little prince wakes up to the kind of day he wishes would happen more often. The sun is bright on the freshly fallen snow, there's not a cloud in the sky, and it's almost perfectly still outside, without a single sound. Mathieu likes these days best, because then Papa just might let him go outside and play later — accompanied by guards, of course, so that the little prince of Rurilienne isn't promptly assassinated, or god forbid, stolen by people from the country on the other side of the river.

He wants to go ask Papa if he can go play outside, but Papa's not at breakfast that morning. Recently he hasn't been showing up for meals, even more than he used to when Mathieu was younger. Mathieu thinks it's because of what's been happening between Rurilienne and the country on the other side of the river, but is it really so hard for Papa to find time to eat, or talk with his only son once in a while? He's worried for him and indignant at the same time, which doesn't make a good mixture for his conscience. It's even difficult to eat his favourite meal (which is pancakes with maple syrup) because of this weight on his mind.

Mathieu knows Papa well enough to guess that he's holed up in his study, scribbling on document after document. If he waits any longer, chances are that Papa will become too absorbed to even talk to him for the whole day. It's now or never, so he leaves the table without asking (because there's no one else who it would feel right for him to ask) and creeps to the study.

The door's shut tightly, a wooden barrier separating Mathieu and his Papa. He knows that Papa won't want to be disturbed and will probably scold him, but he doesn't care. He raps on the door anyway.

Papa's familiar clear voice answers, bidding him to come in. Inside his study it's dark, the room only lit by a stray candle or two. Almost everything is in a miserable state of disarray. There's even a few books lying on the ground by Mathieu's feet. He nearly trips on them.

Papa's not looking too good either. The blue-ribboned ponytail he has that Mathieu sometimes teases him about has half come loose, and his clothes really look like they need to be ironed. Papa's face is probably the worst. There are dark circles under his blue eyes, and his face is pale, making them look all the more prominent. His mouth is drawn tight into a grim expression. "Mon cher, what is it?" He asks wearily, before taking in Mathieu only wearing a slightly rumpled white shirt, pants and really old black shoes, instead of the more elaborate attire that a young prince should be wearing. "Go get dressed properly."

Hasn't he noticed that he's in a visibly worse state? Instead of asking the original question of going outside, Mathieu says softly, "Papa. You should really take a rest."

Papa turns back to the work on his desk, eyes steely. "I cannot afford to take a rest. This is a very hard time, Mathieu."

"You look awful, Papa. You haven't been showing up for meals either. And I... I really miss you. I haven't really talked to you in a long time."

"I'm fine. Find a way to entertain yourself, please. Talk to someone else. I'm sure you could find a companion more interesting than me."

"But... there's no one I'd rather talk to than you, Papa. I didn't get the chance to tell you...!"

His words trail off, unvoiced, at the growing sound of gunshots outside, and the rattling of machine guns, and shouting, and the occasional sickening sound of impact as a lucky bullet finds its mark inside someone's body, tearing through flesh and bone. But it's so close now, like it's directly outside the palace where he and Papa live. Mathieu has never been quite close enough to understand what's going on, or why people from Rurilienne and people from the country on the other side of the river have been fighting since before he was born, but it's really, really scary anyway. Even more so that the fighting is literally right outside.

Before he realizes, Papa's firm hands are gripping his shoulders, maintaining eye contact with him. "Mathieu, listen to me." Papa's voice is quiet, but not a gentle, peaceful quiet like when he sings Mathieu lullabies. He's going on eight years old now, far too old for them, but Papa never begrudged him for that when the night monsters have come out and he can't keep his eyes shut to hide from them. This sort of quiet? Doesn't feel right.

"Yes, Papa."

"I am going outside. You must take the back door out of this study and hide somewhere. It doesn't matter where, just pick your best hiding place, like when we used to play hide-and-seek. Keep as quiet as possible. Most importantly, do not come out of your hiding place under any circumstances unless you hear me tell you that it's safe. Don't try to save me. Understand?"

"Y-yes, Papa." Mathieu's soft voice is starting to shake uncontrollably. He realizes that if he doesn't manage to hide well enough, he could very well lose his life, and so could Papa. "But w-wait. I never sai—"

"Good. Now hurry, mon cher. Get out of here. I will see you soon." Papa says harshly. He's never sounded that cold and mean before.

As Mathieu scrambles past him to escape, his hand accidentally brushes against the side of something metal at Papa's waist. Questioningly, he pauses, holding the door open slightly. A glance at Papa's belt confirms it. Has he always been carrying that handgun? Mathieu isn't even aware of him knowing how how to use it. Looking up at Papa's eyes for answers only reveals the same, sapphire blue colour that they've always been, unlike his own. Except now they're tired, and sad, and maybe even a little sick. In all of his very short life, Mathieu can't ever remember Papa being ill. He's supposed to stay strong, and steadfast, and kind. He's supposed to be Mathieu's hero.

Mathieu doesn't think he can get used to the Papa he's seen in the past few days.

In what seems like an unbearably long amount of time later, Mathieu is curled up against the wooden back of Papa's huge fancy armoire, hidden by the bundles of soft, warm robes and pants. In his haste, he accidentally knocked down some of the clothes, so he's a little cramped, but he can still vaguely feel splinters starting to dig into his clothes. They hurt, with tiny sharp stabs like that time that he cut himself on one of Papa's documents, but he's barely noticed the pain. All of his attention span is focused on what's happening outside the armoire.

There's the voices of several men. Mathieu doesn't recognize the voices at all, nor the weird accent they talk with even though it's still the common language. Are they people from the country on the other side of the river? He gets up on his knees, ignoring the velvety fabric brushing against his face and making it itch. From here, he can barely see through the keyhole, but from what he can tell, there's nothing unusual. Then, he concludes, they must be right outside this room.

"Where _is _Francis? Ya think he ran away?" says a voice. Mathieu's violet eyes widen slightly. Francis is Papa's real name, he remembers. What do these people want with him?

"No, I know the bloody git well enough. He's certainly a fathead, but he's at least clever enough to know that he's the one we want a word with. And he wouldn't abandon his entire country like this." Another voice snorts. It's the voice of someone who isn't nice. It's rough and low, and kind of arrogant too.

"Oi! Frog, are you in here?" The voice bellows, and with a crash, he sees the door fly open, kicked down by the owners of those voices. The sound is so sudden that Mathieu flinches backward in an attempt to get away from it. He feels a bent piece of metal from a felled clothes hanger drag in a line against his right cheek, and warm liquid starts to run down his face. He wipes it away half-heartedly before peeping through the keyhole again. If he squints his eyes, he can just make out three or four big men. One of them is clad in a particularly bright red coat and some sort of crazy, foreign-looking hat.

"...What do you want with me? In case you have not noticed, I'm a little busy right here." It's Papa, still speaking in that weird harsh voice. He appears in the doorway, pushing past the man so that his back is to Mathieu. He's holding a shotgun, and wearing a long cloak.

"Shut up, wanker," says the scary man in the red jacket. "Look at the situation here. You're outnumbered four to one. I could kill you as easily as blinking, and then this whole war would be over, huh? You'd better not give me any of your usual rubbish at this point." Papa pauses for a second, before huffing out a breath of air. He nods, but the shotgun is still in his hand, ready in case he needs it.

"Right then. You have two options now. You shall surrender and hand over this country, or we get rid of you right here and leave Rurilienne without an heir."

Mathieu can't see Papa's reaction properly. He hears Papa say, "I am not that gullible. Who is to say that you won't kill me after I come with you? And I have my country to consider."

"You don't have a bloody choice, do you?" There's a long silence, as Papa considers. Mathieu blinks in surprise. This man doesn't know about him, does he? "Time's a-wasting, frog. Make up your mind quickly now, because I haven't the time to be mucking around here."

Papa takes a deep breath, like he's trying to keep calm. "I've already made my decision. Kill me." _Kill me_. Papa's going to let himself die. No fuss or commotion, just here without even a chance for Mathieu to say what he wants to say. Mathieu doesn't know a thing about politics or combat, but he's sure that whatever he does will be a bad decision. At the same time, every last atom in his seven-year-old body can't let this happen.

Papa lets the gun fall to the ground. As it clatters and becomes still, he lifts his hands above his head harmlessly. Mathieu pushes the door to the armoire lightly. It hasn't been wedged shut.

The man chuckles softly. "As you wish, old frog. Say goodbye, then." He raises his pistol slowly, and takes aim at Papa.

At the precise moment that Mathieu hears the click of the trigger being pulled, something snaps in his head and he comes flying out of the armoire, taking everyone in the room by surprise. No one expects this, least of all himself. He doesn't quite remember the exact details of what happens, just that a few brief moments later he's standing in front of Papa, the handgun he knew was hidden under Papa's cloak clutched tightly in his hands. It's a lot heavier than he expected it to be. Steadily, he raises his arm and aims the weapon at the head of the strange man.

He doesn't look so terrifying now that Mathieu has a proper look at him. He's about the same height as Papa is, and beneath that weird hat with fluffy white feathers on it Mathieu can see that he has short, dishevelled blonde hair. Dark, thick eyebrows make a line above narrowed eyes that remind Mathieu of the poor stray kitten he saw once, except not at all, because these are the eyes of a wildcat. These are the eyes of a creature that will bite and scratch and refuse to be handled.

Mathieu takes a deep breath, and starts speaking in the loudest voice he's ever had to use. "Don't come near my Papa. If you ever do anything to hurt him, I'll..." He trails off for a second, trying to think of a suitable threat, before he realizes exactly what he's holding again in his hands. "...I'll kill you!" He shouts, violet eyes blazing into green.

The man's expression remains calm, however his thick eyebrows are raised in bewilderment at the sight of this odd child who appeared from nowhere with unbridled rage in his purple eyes, blood staining his cheek and hands that he pays no mind to.

"Well. This is... quite an unexpected turn of events, to say the least." The man murmurs. "But I certainly didn't know the old frog was in possession of a son, boy. A chip off the old block, you look to be. You're even the spitting image of my own son." As he speaks, Mathieu slowly places his other hand on the handgun as well, in a feeble attempt to stop it from shaking and losing its aim at the man's head. How does he even know how to aim a gun? He can't ever remember holding one before. Somehow the thought of this being an instinct of his is even more horrible than what's happening right now.

"Just shoot the kid. He's in the way of our goal, and them unawesome Rurilians are gonna come running with backup soon." One of the men says. He has silvery-white hair and crimson irises, the same colour that Mathieu sees in his peripheral vision, coating his right hand from when he wiped his cheek.

"I can't kill a bloody child, Gilbert. As much as I know you'd like the idea, I shan't risk it, thank you." As if on cue, the sound of thundering footsteps becomes audible, but it's still fairly far off. "I'm letting you and the frog go with your lives this time, child. But when you get older, don't expect me to be so kind, understand?" He says to Mathieu. Mathieu doesn't have any idea of what to say in response, so he just holds Papa's handgun up higher and hopes that gets his intentions across.

"Let's get out of here, then, if we don't want to be caught by those reinforcements. Clear out, troops!" Very quickly, the man is out the door, roaring orders as he goes.

It takes Mathieu a little while to properly come back to his senses and register exactly what he's doing—he's _holding a gun, _and aiming it to kill a person. What the hell was he _thinking_? Especially when Papa told him not to save him. His knees and arms soon give out. He lands numbly on the floor, devoid of all coherent thought, until he remembers Papa, and then everything starts to hurt again—but mostly his heart.

Papa looks way more wrong than he did before. He's sort of half-curled into the fetal position, both hands clutching where he got shot in agony, and his soft blond hair is completely loose from its ribbon, lying in a tangled mess. "Papa!" Mathieu screams, tugging at his hands, trying to remove them from the wound. When he finally gets them free, he wishes he hadn't done it. Soaking his white shirt and dripping onto the floor is a dark red stain, which smells like metal. It looks like a red, grotesque flower.

He lets out a groan as he tries to shift onto his back. "Papa, don't move! You could hurt yourself even more..." Mathieu has absolutely no knowledge of first aid, but he knows that a pool of blood this size can't be good for the person it belongs to. After a moment of thought, he settles on using his cloak to stanch the bleeding. As he determinedly tends to Papa, fat tears start to pour down his face, drenching the cut on his cheek and making it burn even more than it already does.

"Mon cher..." Papa breathes out, barely managing to stay awake against the wave of dizziness from blood loss.

"Papa, please don't talk."

"Y-you are beginning to grow up now, are you not? Please stop crying…"

"I'm so sorry, Papa. I-I didn't listen to you. I tried to save you when you told me not to, and then I couldn't even stop them f-from... from hurting you..." Mathieu chokes.

"...I think... I can forgive you this one time, mon cher. After all, what's done is done, no? There is no more point in being upset about it. And you yourself are alive and well, so... I guess it is okay in the end."

"You're hurt so badly, and that's almost as horrible as if I were hurt myself..."

"I don't mind too much that I was shot, Mathieu. This is well, war, is it not? People will get hurt, and some will die. Why should I be any different?" He tries to force out a chuckle. It comes out sounding more like a grimace.

"But why do we need to have war, then?" Mathieu insists.

"Good question, mon cher. I don't even know the answer to that."

Both of them remain silent for a while. Mathieu is too focused on pressing the cloak to Papa's side, while Papa is doing his best to stay alive and keep breathing even though the white-hot pain of the wound grows worse every second. He coughs out a bit of blood, before struggling to lift his hand and place it on his son's cheek. As gently as he can manage it, he wipes away some of the dampness that comes with tears. Without immediately noticing it, he also accidentally smears some of his own blood on Mathieu's face.

"Ah, Papa..." He hiccups, his voice still a little shaky with tears.

"Yes, Mathieu?"

"I forgot that I wanted t-to tell you something."

"What is it?"

He does his best to conjure a smile. Just smile, even though it hurts. Papa told him not to cry anymore. "Papa, it's been a long time since I got to be with you, and... I didn't get a chance to tell you that I love you."

Papa looks like he's about to fall asleep. His eyes are half-lidded, so it doesn't seem like he's looking at Mathieu or anything else anymore. His voice is barely more than a broken whisper. He's tired now, really tired. Even though he doesn't want anything more than to fall asleep and maybe never wake up, he still gets out his reply just before his eyes shut completely.

"I never said I loved you as well, mon cher."

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It's kind of sad, really. The only injury Mathieu's sustained from this huge mess is that cut on his right cheek, and a whole lot of blood on his face and hands. Whereas Papa has a bullet lodged deep inside of his body, still stuck in there because nobody is skilled or brave enough to remove it.

When Mathieu burst out of the armoire, he surprised the man with the red coat. Enough to throw his aim off by a little and miss any essential organs.

Papa's sleeping now, tucked up in his bed all cleaned up and bandaged. He's been asleep for a long time, except when he woke up in the middle of the night a while ago for about five minutes, said that he loved Mathieu, and promptly drifted off again.

Nowadays, Mathieu spends his time sitting, next to his bedside. Papa's limp hand is barely enclosed in both of his. While he sits, he thinks. He thinks of that strange man, with the messy short hair that looks like it needs to be brushed. He remembers those green, cat-like eyes, narrowed in irritation. He remembers how bright and clear they were. They match what Mathieu knows of him so far—sharp, and unforgiving. Surely a man like that wouldn't be merciful in war. So, he has another question that can't be so easily answered.

_Why didn't the man kill us?_

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**Author's Notes:**

******This is pretty unimpressive for my first post on this site, eh? Though I guess everyone has to start somewhere.**

******Listened to China's 'Aiyaa, Four Thousand Years' while writing. It's a beautiful song. If you haven't heard it, you are missing out on a lot of amazingness.  
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******The name of 'the country on the other side of the river' is actually Denzel, even though it's not mentioned at any point in the story. No, not after the actor; I just thought it would make a good simple name to contrast with its neighbour country being named Rurilienne. I quite like this AU I've made up here, so if I ever write another fanfiction fleshing it out more, I'll likely use that name. Maybe from America's perspective, since he only received a passing mention in this one...?**

******It somewhat upsets me that Kumajirou didn't get a chance to appear since I kind of like him, but I couldn't find just the right place to fit him in. Oh well.**

******Please do review! All feedback is appreciated, even flames. They amuse me to no end.**


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